


She's Insane (-ly Beautiful)

by smolqueernerds



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Currently going down with this ship it's too late for me save yourselves, F/F, This is not what I want this is not what I planned and I just gotta say I do not understand, literally everything that can go wrong did go wrong, the road to hell is paved with good intentions and this is one of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 23:06:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6630703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolqueernerds/pseuds/smolqueernerds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two magnificent women cross paths and match wits at a dinner party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She's Insane (-ly Beautiful)

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you find yourself panicking uncontrollably about TRK at midnight and the only solution is abysmal femslash.
> 
> Blue's curse is lifted, and most people are alive.

Love had always been a game for Orla Sargent.  
Well, possibly not love per se. From a combination of innate talent and long practice, Orla had developed a finely honed instinct for most of the everyday trappings of love. She knew how to lower her eyelashes and part her lips in a fashion that made her look like she had a dark and alluring secret and also minimized her nose. She knew exactly the degree of banter to use for both a first and second date, exactly the degree of wild abandon required to turn her less-than-graceful dancing into something charming and infectious. She knew how to turn her smiles into knives and her laughter into thorns, how to cut a man’s soul into tiny pieces and make him kneel at her feet in worship as he bled out. She knew how to make fifteen different cocktails and tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue. In short, by Henrietta standards if nothing else, Orla Sargent was a first class seductress.  
She'd been compared to a chess master more than once, but couldn't speak to the accuracy of the simile; she’d never liked board games - impossible to play while one’s nail polish is drying.  
The thing was, whatever one might call her game, she played it because she was good at it and she enjoyed being good, being better than anyone else in the Henrietta sphere. The faint thrill of near-automatic victory was not from a sense of triumph over the game, but triumph over those who could not play at her level. Men were her game pieces, but women were her opponents. (One did not engage with one’s nemeses off the battlefield, no matter if one might idly wonder about it from time to time, even if the wondering ever became more than idle. Besides, there simply hadn't been an opportunity since college.)  
Well, maybe playing had long since ceased to be particularly satisfying, but that didn’t seem like reason enough to stop. Anyway, it was a part of her now; without it, she wouldn’t be much more than lung power and nail polish, which weren’t really enough to build a reputation on. Orla did so like having a reputation. Walking into a room and knowing that everyone else knew beyond a shadow of a doubt where you stood, that even if they’d never come into your presence they’d encountered you in a dozen different conversations and had formed a halfway solid opinion that you now had the power to root firmly or topple indiscriminately, was unfailingly satisfying.  
This room, however, had had no prior warning of Orla Sargent’s arrival, and the opinion its inhabitants seemed to be forming was accompanied by a great deal more sniffs, gasps, and mutters than were to be found in a Henrietta bar. Orla’s preconceived opinion, on the other hand - old blood plus urban living was a recipe for incurable snobbishness - was stabilizing by the moment.  
She had really thought that hauling half the clan of 300 Fox Way up to DC to meet the parents of Blue’s newly official boyfriend would be a lot more fun. In fact, she’d hollered for shotgun the moment Maura announced the trip. (She hadn't actually gotten shotgun, but that was besides the point.)  
Blue had been horrified. Maura had been immovable. Blue’s boyfriend had been very polite and very little help, which Orla suspected was a typical state of affairs. She was unsure what Blue saw in him. Possibly it was the glasses. Or the whole “true love” thing. But more likely the glasses.  
The ensuing road trip had been an experience best not acknowledged ever again. The best that could be said of it was that it was fairly brief, though not brief enough.  
And now that Orla was finally here, there was nothing to do but stand by the buffet table methodically consuming mysterious bacon-wrapped lumps speared on toothpicks, basking in the scandalized glances, and trying not to think about the journey home that tomorrow would bring.  
Oh, well. At least there was a decent view from here.  
True, the room was sadly dominated by sixty-year-olds, but there were a few choice pieces of eye-candy flitting about.  
Chief among them was a woman who Orla recognized from Blue’s description and the camera roll on her boyfriend’s cell phone as Helen Gansey. (Calla had stolen it to do a reading, and Orla had taken the opportunity to snoop.)  
There was nothing about Helen that did not look purposefully orchestrated; not just the incredibly subtle makeup choices or painfully perfect posture, but everything down to the symmetry of her cheekbones and slimness of her ankles. Orla suspected her of being genetically engineered, or possibly just a robot.  
Helen wore a sleeveless, shimmering dove-gray gown that complemented her coloring and flattered her figure, though almost no piece of clothing would dare to do otherwise. Her hair was piled high in a style that made Orla want to yank out her hairpins and tangle her fingers in the resulting cascade.  
As she moved through the room, inserting herself into conversations with ease only to swiftly slide out again, there was an air of self-concerned amusement about her that somehow achieved classy without crossing over into obnoxious. She made Orla think of a swan, or a cat, or a dragon. She looked, oddly enough, like opportunity.

Orla Sargent, Helen Gansey thought, should not rightly be beautiful. Every part of her was too big, too bright, too much, from that Cyrano de Bergerac nose to those hips that had clearly rebelled against a genetic destiny of prodigious childbirth to the size ten-and-a-half feet ensconced on thoroughly gauche magenta wedge shoes.  
But somehow all of Orla’s outsize and overdone features combined into a brashly sultry, unusually comely female.  
However, none of that was an excuse for the shoes, or the heavy-handed application of lavender lipstick and glittering green eyeshadow, or the messy bun pinned in place by what appeared to be takeout chopsticks, or the blindingly yellow polka-dot sundress- everything loudly unsuitable for an evening soiree.  
She looked as if she had dressed this way because she had no interest in looking suitable, but Helen suspected that this was a contrived effect. By token, this should have entirely ruined the effect, and it did, but instead of merely looking ridiculous, it was both ridiculous and cute.  
Thus far, Helen had been drifting purposefully throughout the room, charting a course so as to chat and dance with all the most important people in the least amount of time, all the while keeping an eye on her little brother. Along with his girlfriend and the rest of the Sargents, Dick had spent the night being genteelly interrogated by both the Ganseys, who the Sargents were interrogating right back, with somewhat less subtlety. Helen held back only because she knew her brother was expecting her to join the fray, and she kept him in suspense when she could. Besides, Blue was good for her brother, possibly the best thing to ever happen to him, though Helen would never actually tell her so; she doubted Blue would appreciate the description of her as something that happened to people. (She sort of was, though, like a hurricane. A petite, spiky-haired whirlwind of righteous indignation and sarcastic pragmatism that tore down your walls, knocked you flat, and reshaped you.)  
Still, she should make the effort to interact with at least one of Blue’s family members. From one memorable, rather garbled phone conversation with Dick involving the words “orange bikini” repeated in increasingly high-pitched tones, she'd gathered that he found Orla alarming and intimidating, which meant she was most likely worth meeting.  
Inclining her head and asking an oilman’s wife to excuse her, Helen veered towards Orla, who was holding her champagne glass in a manner that suggested she might tilt her head and knock back the contents at any time. Possibly she knew no other way to drink.  
Orla was also gazing intently at her, making no attempts to hide it. In a way, Helen appreciated the honesty. She also appreciated the fact that Orla’s dark eyes were displaying frank interest.  
In one way and one way only, Helen was simple; she always made a very accurate first impression. The words that came to people’s minds when they first saw her truly fit her perfectly. But what many people did not realize was she couldn't fit perfectly into these words, that the wholeness and realness of her was too much for such cramped confine, and so the eldest Gansey daughter spent much of her life spilling uncontrollably over the edges of _elegant_ and _immaculate_ and _utterly_ _composed_.  
Helen was accustomed to the reaction she always received upon introducing herself: a three-to-five second look up and down, and then less than one second for the pieces to slide into place behind their eyes as they boxed her off and labeled her _Gansey, Helen. Early twenties, socialite. Notable features: good taste, excellent bone structure_.  
She wasn't resentful of this, of course; there would have been no point to resentment. But nonetheless, a deviation was an undeniable pleasure.  
Meeting Orla’s eyes, Helen cocked her head and motioned with her champagne in a silent inquiry.  
She took the resultant smile as an invitation to approach.  
“Miss Orla Sargent, I presume?”  
“How'd you guess?”  
“Dick’s described you.”  
“Oh, is Dick the boyfriend’s name?” Orla exclaimed in the tone of one who has just made a fascinating discovery. “I thought that was just the way Blue and the bald one like to insult him.”  
“Much to his chagrin, it's his name,” Helen replied. “So, are you enjoying yourself tonight?”  
“Right now, I am.” With surprising daintiness, Orla took a sip of her drink. “So, Miss Helen Gansey, care to tell me something about yourself?”  
Helen decided not to ask how Orla had guessed. “Like what?”  
“Something interesting. Not obvious.”  
“That eliminates the first ten things that come to mind,” Helen only partially joked.  
“Oh, come on.” Orla’s eyes glinted. “Show me some hidden depths.”  
Helen thought for six seconds. “Hobbies include gardening, flying my helicopter, and torturing my brother.”  
Orla looked unimpressed. “Knew one, could have guessed another. Gardening, though?”  
“It's calming. Now you tell me something.”  
“I'm allergic to pumpkin, I like bluegrass music, and I could make you look prettier than you do right now.”  
Helen couldn't help a surprised laugh. “And what makes you think you know better than DC’s best stylists?”  
“You're too unattainable,” Orla informed her. “People look at you and they know you're too good for them. You need to be able to make them think they have a chance in a million first.”  
“What if I don't want them to think that?”  
“Hey, that's your business. Just saying, more makeup, less skirt, let your hair down. Pretend you don't know you're gorgeous. Works like a charm.”  
“I'm unsure if I should thank you or take offense.”  
Instead of responding, Orla tilted her head. “Did you hear that?”  
“What?”  
“The music. It stopped being terrible.”  
“This is a nationally acclaimed string quartet.”  
“Well, there's no accounting for taste.”  
For the briefest of moments, Helen was speechless.  
“Anyhow, we should dance,” Orla said in a tone that suggested this was an eminently reasonable idea.  
“No thank you,” Helen said, in a tone that suggested Orla was clinically insane.  
Orla tilted her head in challenge. “You danced with at least four people before you came and talked to me.”  
Part of Helen was pleased that Orla was keeping a close enough eye on her to count her dance partners. The part of Helen maintaining control over her vocal cords replied, “Yes. Four men,” placing the emphasis on the last syllable.  
“Oh, come on. Please, don’t try and tell me you're straight.”  
Helen sputtered. Actually sputtered. If Dick saw her expression now his sides would split from laughter. “Do you have any idea how many conservatives are at this party?”  
“Too many?” Orla guessed correctly.  
“Being drunk enough to even consider dancing with you here would be a scandal in itself.”  
“Wouldn't have to be dirty dancing,” Orla wheedled. “I'd keep my hands to myself.”  
Helen narrowed her eyes.  
Orla sighed. “Well, I tried.”  
“That you did.”

Closing her eyes in a slow blink, Orla set her glass down on the table and wondered how to proceed.  
Helen was rejecting her. There was no other word for it. But it wasn't the kind of rejection that meant _I’m not into you and that’s final_ ; it was the kind of rejection that meant _this is not the time or place_.  
“Guess we're not getting anywhere with this tonight,” Orla mused aloud.  
Helen’s eyebrows hovered somewhere around her hairline. Clearly, words to the effect of _or any other night, either_ were on the tip of her tongue. But as the seconds rolled on, she didn't open her mouth, so Orla reached back and pulled a pen out of her hair.  
“Dear god,” Helen said, “what else do you have in there?”  
Orla smiled slyly. “Wouldn't you like to know.”  
“Do you turn everything into an innuendo?”  
“Only on my best days.” With her free hand, Orla grabbed Helen’s wrist, turning her hand upward.  
“You're giving me your phone number,” Helen observed, as Orla scribbled a series of digits across her wrist in ink. “How novel.”  
“It's the house phone,” Orla corrected. “So, no texting, and always ask for me when you call.”  
“What makes you think I'll call?”  
“Not really thinking,” Orla admitted. “More like hoping.”  
“Pity,” Helen commented, “I was hoping for some kind of psychic vision pick-up line just there.”  
“Yeah, well.” Straightening up, Orla grinned and tucked the pen behind her ear. “Take me out for coffee or a movie sometime, and you can have all the lines you want.”  
“Coffee or a movie,” Helen repeated. “You don't ask much.”  
“I like to start small.”  
“Does this offer has a time limit?”  
Orla didn't smile, although the effort not to took considerable willpower. “Maybe.”  
“So what, I’ll just call you up sometime hoping that it's a good time for me to drop everything and rush halfway across Virginia just to buy you a macchiato?”  
“My schedule’s not that crowded,” Orla said, “and you've got a helicopter. I'm worth the ride. Also, I don't drink anything with more than three syllables.”  
“Noted,” Helen said, and her lips tugged up just slightly at the corners.  
Orla wondered what it would be like to see her smile full-on, realized it might be slightly terrifying, and decided to make it happen someday soon.  
Not right now, though, as this seemed like the right time for a dramatic exit.  
Dropping Helen’s wrist, Orla swooped in, enjoying the brief flash of panic in Helen’s eyes before she touched her lips butterfly-lightly to Helen’s cheek in what wasn't quite a kiss.  
“See you around,” she murmured, drawing back.  
“Leaving so soon?”  
“If you miss me, you know where to find me.”  
(As she wasn't actually allowed to drive their car, Orla wasn't sure where she was planning to go, but sacrifices had to be made for the sake of a dramatic exit.)

Helen was the kind of person you met at parties. More then that, she was the person you essentially saw only at parties. You did not seek her out, only waited for fate to drop her into your lap, partially because it seemed like the thing to be done and partially because socializing with her outside of the protective barriers of small talk and sparkling beverages was foreign and possibly dangerous territory. In short, however much one might enjoy her company, one did not simply have coffee or go to a movie with Helen Gansey. One certainly did not offer to do either at her convenience and scribble one’s phone number on the inside of her wrist.  
But Orla Sargent seemed eminently uninterested in either doing what was customary or waiting for fate to step in (an interesting trait in a psychic), and Helen had to admit the prospect was intriguing. Orla Sargent, she decided, was like Mexican food; faintly exotic, probably inadvisable, shockingly delicious.  
She realized that she had a hand raised to her face, two fingers pressed to the spot where Orla’s lips had hovered a moment before, and forced herself to lower it.  
(She did not, however, deny herself the pleasure of watching Orla’s hip-swaying walk out the door.)  
(Across the room, Richard Gansey III groaned piteously, “Oh Christ, no.”)

Two weeks later, Orla woke up to the sound of helicopter blades whirring over the roof of 300 Fox Way, and smiled.


End file.
